


Mobile Snapshots

by keelywolfe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-06
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 17:11:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock preferred to text, always.  It was one of the very first things John learned about the man and a lesson that was not forgotten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

* * *

Sherlock preferred to text, always. It was one of the very first things John learned about the man and a lesson that was not forgotten. 

That was a bit of a conundrum to John at the beginning. He'd never met anyone who liked to talk quite as much as Sherlock and it seemed reasonable that it would extend to his mobile phone. It's only after some thought that John concludes that Sherlock doesn't like to talk so much as he likes to hear the sound of his own voice; being on the phone required having another active participant in the conversation and that was one too many for Sherlock. 

Texting let him toss out his genius in little blips and blobs, hardly ever bothering to explain as Sherlock had moved on from the puzzle the moment he understood it and didn't quite understand that everyone else didn't move on with him. He texted, he sent out glorious little packages of textual brilliance and then promptly forgot them, moving on to the next one. 

On the rare occasion that John managed to get the man to answer his mobile, he took advantage of it, ruthlessly, always. Took the chance to call him an idiot, call him a self-centred prat. Easy things to say because they were true and John could always say true things. Lying was where he struggled, John was an angel at honestly and a failure as the devil, and that failing would hurt him later. It would hurt and hurt and hurt. But that's later. 

Right now, he just takes advantage of having Sherlock's ear, however briefly, and called him names so that he can hear them. Idiot, yes, annoying, always, not freak, never freak because that's not a true thing. Called him a wanker just once, right on the borderline of something that might be true, and Sherlock didn't protest so it was all right. He never protested true things. 

Called him names that were eventually warmed with fondness, with affection, and later, when he can say I love you, he does because it's a lovely thing to say when it's true, even if Sherlock doesn't always say it back. But again, that's later. Much later than now. 

* * *


	2. A Study In Pink

* * *

He's only officially lived here for less than a day and already his new flat felt more like a home than his last. His last flat had been grey and dark, no matter what time of the day. 221b Baker Street might not be the homey warmth that coloured his memories of his grand mum's or his cleaner, sterile life in the military; it might be full of some of the strangest clutter John had ever seen. Tidy or not, it felt as though someone lived here. Some else was pottering around on their computer and John wasn't quite alone.

Packing his old flat had literally taken fifteen minutes. Nothing there was really his past the clothes and his laptop, and moving hadn't required anything more than getting out his duffle. He'd been on his way back to Baker Street when it occurred to him that he hadn't even seen the bedroom that was to be his yet and he might be walking into a room even emptier than the one he'd just left. 

It would be all right, John told himself. His finances were scraping the bottom but he could live without a wardrobe for some time and he'd find a mattress somewhere. If he had to kip on the sofa a few days, well, hopefully Sherlock wouldn't mind because he couldn't go back to that silent, cold flat again. 

Much to his relief, his room was furnished with not only a wardrobe but a large bed, already made up with a thick duvet and plump pillows. It was a far cry from an army cot or the camp bed he'd been using and John had had to resist the urge to throw himself down on it and wallow in the luxury of all. 

Instead, he hung his clothes up, shaking out any microscopic wrinkles they might have acquired out of habit, lined up his shoes, settled his books on the end table and…that was it. He was moved in. 

Eager to get away from amount of pathetic that spoke of, John went downstairs to the sitting room to find Sherlock already there, tapping away on his computer. He didn't seem to be interested in conversation and that was all right. John had had flat shares before and issues with serial murders aside, it could take a bit of time to adjust to living with someone you didn't know well.

John sat down in the chair that he was already starting to think of as his and pulled out his mobile phone, frowning down at the tiny screen. No messages. He opened the address book. Two numbers and one of them was his own. Somehow, that seemed even more pathetic than his closet and John stared at for a moment, and that emptiness he'd been so eager to leave behind threatened again. 

The nearby tap tap reminded him that there was at least one other number he should add to it. John fumbled through the menu options in the phone; his thumbs felt too large, trying to hit the tiny keys and the menu options were perplexing. Finally, he found the add number tab and scrolled down to it. 

"What's your mobile number?" John asked without looking up. If he looked away, somehow he wasn't sure he'd be able to find the menus again.

Tapping keys and then, "Why?"

"So I can call you?' John said, a bit perplexed.

Again, typing. "Why would you need to call?"

"In case I need to know if we need milk. In case I'm running late and need to tell you. On the off chance you run off with a murderous cabbie, you see where I am going with this?" John said, exasperated. Silence.

"Forget it," John sighed and he moved to toss his phone on the end table. Only to blink in surprise when Sherlock reached over and plucked it away, fingers moving quickly over the keys before he handed it back. 

"You can add any number from a person who's sent you a text," Sherlock informed him and was back at his laptop without a word.

"Right," John smiled a little. He clicked back to the address book and blinked to find not one, but several numbers including Mrs Hudson and three separate numbers for Lestrade. Mike Stamford was also on the list and even a few takeaway restaurants. Number for people, places, he knew. Numbers he might need. 

"Thanks," John said, softly. Sherlock only typed on his laptop.

* * *


	3. The Blind Banker

* * *

They stopped at an all-night chemist and used one of the little do-it-yourself kiosks to print out the photograph on John's phone. Or rather, Sherlock had used the kiosk. John had stood back, eyeing the machine with deep distrust. It was far too reminiscent of the chip and pin machine down at the shops and John had the idea if he stood too close it would eat the photograph out of spite and possibly his phone as well. 

It was curiosity that finally coaxed him into stepping a little closer, evil machines be damned. Sherlock was muttering at the thing like he was trying to cast a spell and while John didn't doubt that if there was anyone capable of it, it would be Sherlock, he did suspect that something else was going on.

What it seemed to be was the picture quality was less than Sherlock would have preferred. He was changing the settings on the little machine with alacrity, twiddling with this and that. For all John knew, he really was casting some sort of spell on it. 

"The resolution on this phone is terrible," Sherlock complained. "You need a new one."

"I don't ever take pictures with it." John shrugged. "It's a phone, it's made for talking."

"You took this one."

"And let's back up a step. If you'd've answer your phone when I first called, you could've seen it first-hand. I'm thinking that a picture in your head probably has better resolution than any phone on the market," John pointed out.

Sherlock made a non-committal sound, probably agreeing with the head comment and completely ignoring the point about answering his damned phone. 

After the case was solved, John deposited the checks into Sherlock's account. He'd agonized over what to do with them. Just how much had he earned, how much had Sherlock really needed him along on the case? In the end, he only took enough to pay for his fine and some groceries. Cost of damages, he thought, he'd at least earned. 

Two hours later he got a terse little automated text from his bank letting him know his deposit of £10,000 had been received and was now available for withdrawal. Later, Sherlock called him on the phone just as he was getting out of the surgery and asked him to stop at the chemist for salt peter and also milk. 

On his way, John went to the nearby MePhone shop and bought a new one with all the bells and whistles they could provide. They were pleased to show him how to use most of them as well, with the kind patience of people used to working on commission, and John paid careful attention to the camera display. 

It had excellent resolution.

* * *


	4. The Geek Interpreter

* * *

It didn't fit properly. No matter which costume John tried on, it was either too long, too wide or simply too much damned fabric and Sherlock was less than sympathetic to his plight, standing on the other side of the dressing room, resplendent in his own outfit. 

"If you'd come when I first texted you they would have had a chance to fit you for it," Sherlock said, pointedly and John wasn't fooled that his annoyance it wasn't because he'd chosen not to come stampeding down at the first text demanding, "Ninjas. 3pm."

"Says the man who knows where to get ninja costumes on short notice," John muttered.

There was discreet knock at the door, "And how is it going in there," a bright female voice offered.

"Adequately," Sherlock replied, gathering his clothes, and John didn't bother to argue. Perhaps he could fold up the cuffs…his phone was sitting haphazardly on the room's small bench and John scooped it up as Sherlock leaned over, quickly pushing the camera shutter button. The flash was blinding in the small room. 

"Did you just take a photograph of me?" Sherlock demanded. His pale eyes, the only part of him visible through his mask, were narrowed. Possibly displeasure? More likely trying to figure out why John would want a picture.

"I did," John agreed. He scrolled through his photo album to find it. It was a good one, Sherlock half-crouched and no one looking at it would know that he had only bent down to scoop his socks off the dressing room floor. Sherlock looked dangerous, a warrior in black.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, and all right, perhaps a dangerous warrior wouldn't be folding his trousers to carefully match the pleats. The question gave credence to John speculation that Sherlock wouldn't understand and he hesitated to explain. Sentiment was what it was; he was completely chuffed to be here right now, dressing up as a ninja for pity's sake. He wanted something to remember it by. 

"I think it should be a great, unbroken rule that if a bloke ever dresses up as a ninja, there needs to be photographic proof," John said, lightly. True to form, Sherlock gave a little snort and proceeded to ignore that. Truth be told, that was all right. John had his photograph. 

He folded his own clothes briskly, tucking them into a paper sack that the salesperson had thoughtfully provided. The brilliant flash of light next to him made him startle, blinded for a moment before John turned to stare at Sherlock, blinking away the glowing image marring his vision. 

"Did you just…?" John asked, slowly. 

Sherlock was already tucking his phone away, God knew where in that outfit. It was tight enough that John fancied he could almost see the pale white of skin showing through it. 

"And so, the rule remains unbroken," Sherlock said briskly, snatching up the bag with his clothes. And something else, something John hadn't noticed before and he shoved his feet into his shoes frantically as Sherlock darted out the door, grabbed up the shopping bag and shouted after him, "Oi! That had better not be a real sword! Sherlock!"

It didn't occur to John until later how them sharing a dressing room might have seemed odd and by then, it was too late to be worrying after it. It was all right, he told himself later, writing up his notes and discreetly leaving that part out. It was just fine. They had been in a terrible rush.

* * *


	5. A Scandal in Belgravia

* * *

"Don't you have enough blackmail material by now?" John grunted, trying to heave five stone of uncooperative Sherlock into the bed. They'd gotten as far as the bedroom when Sherlock finally wilted like a particularly long-stemmed daisy in the sun, sprawling on the rug.

"No," was his only reply, the light on Lestrade's phone blinking cheerfully to indicate it was still recording away.

"Look, I won't tell him how much you filmed if you just help me get him off the floor," John pleaded. Frankly, he suspected Lestrade had enough blackmail material from the ride in the patrol car to last a good long time. Honestly, he might have suspected Sherlock had a good singing voice but John never would have thought he'd know any of the lyrics to the Beatles. 

"Aw, but John, he just started drooling...oh, would you look at that, I think he's trying to lick the floor. C'mon, just another minute?" Lestrade gave him a pleading look, reminiscent of sad puppies and rainy Sundays.

John sighed. "One more minute. I'm leaving, I want nothing to do with this. When I come back, he gets on the bed."

"Never thought I'd be helping you get Sherlock into bed," Lestrade called back cheekily.

"I'm telling him about the videos," John growled back.

He took the time to hang up their coats, scrubbing a weary hand over his face before venturing back to deal with his interestingly musically-inclined roommate. Lestrade seemed satisfied with what he'd gotten and was willing enough to help him get Sherlock settled. 

Afterward, when Lestrade had finally gone, John snapped a picture of his own. Sherlock had stopped drooling, his face half buried into the blankets. His lashes were a dark smudges on his cheeks, the bruise on his face where John punched him was just starting to turn purple, shading into yellowish. 

His breathing was a little stuffy, possibly from being drugged and John frowned at that, crouching in closer to give it a better listen. Didn't seem dangerously congested, though John was sure he'd be checking on him frequently regardless.

His hair was falling forward, over his eyes and unthinkingly, John pushed it back. Uselessly, it flopped back into place, defying his attempts to curb it.

Sherlock made a little sound, almost a sigh. "John?" he slurred out.

"Yeah, it's just me. Get some sleep," John whispered.

"Mmm," he sighed, trustingly. John watched as he burrowed deeper in the blanket, one hand reaching out, searching. John took it without question, let Sherlock twine their fingers together. 

That left him here, spending the night he was supposed to be on a date instead holding hands with his drugged flatmate. John supposed he was just as well Lestrade had already gone. 

This kind of blackmail material belong in the hands of no one.

* * *


End file.
